


Lock-screen

by Blueice1998



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Friendship, M/M, Photography
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 13:10:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7316410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blueice1998/pseuds/Blueice1998
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg’s phone wallpaper is a cute picture of him and Mycroft kissing…it keeps Sherlock from trying to steal his phone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lock-screen

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a 1,000 followers gift for my Mystrade tumblr and based on a headcanon from there. http://umbrellabadge.tumblr.com/ 
> 
> Unbritpicked and unbeta-ed

“I will not be in attendance this year. Send mummy my love.” Mycroft was sitting against the wall on his bed, flipping through his journal trying to find an acceptable reason for his absence. _Sherlock’s in bloody Siberia._ Written hastily on page 76 seemed like a great excuse, but he’d rather not reveal the classified information. “I’ll be flying out of the country soon, and I must prepare... _sorry_. It’s in my schedule.”

“It probably was, but your mum nearly screamed the house down when I told her you won’t be coming. She hadn’t given me that much abuse in years-- I don’t think I deserved that.”

“You’ll handle her just fine on your own.”

“No-- I really won’t.”

“Are you afraid of my mother? She’s hardly dangerous.”

“We both are.”

Mycroft sighed. 

That little tidbit was frustratingly true. Mycroft had hoped mummy could see reason if it came from his father’s mouth. Alas, his father was not able to tame the maternal beast. For a mathematician his mother was frighteningly illogical. 

“I haven’t tended to my foreign office in a year,” he said, a pang of dejection filled his chest when he admitted the lapse. “I didn’t fly to my post in Eastern Europe during my last moment of free time because well-- the Korean elections.”

Judging from the silence that not enough to get him out of it.

“I realize I said I’d be able to visit for her birthday. I may have even promised, can’t remember. But, I am sincerely busy-- and that excuse might very well be childish, however--”

“I understand, Mycroft.” His father sighed, it sounded like resignation over the phone. “But, your mum, she keeps saying ‘you never know if I’ll live to see another birthday!’ over and over. We’re old! How do I respond?”

“That’s cheap.” Mycroft gripped the strap of his leather bound journal tightly. “Tell her she’s in impeccable health and that I need to go to Europe!”

“Ooh, just be honest? Be honest that you’ve had her youngest son shipped off to god knows where for the past two years of his life while you have everyone thinking he’s gone and killed himself, and now feel _sorry_ when you’re around her for too long-- because that’s truthful.”

“Father, it was the only way to keep Sherlock from getting torn apart by Moriarty.”

“But, I don’t see why taking your mother to the morgue and making her think he was really dead was the only way.”

“Mummy can’t keep a secret.”

“Funny, because me and your mum both have plenty.”

“We are not having this conversation again. Soon it won’t be as terrible as it sounds.” _If I could just get to Siberia_ , he thought.

“Believe me, I told myself that for months as I held your mum while she cried herself to sleep.”

 _I’m a coward_ , Mycroft thought to himself before changing the subject, “You’d love Russia. I know that you and mum are conversational in russian, heard you with the neighbours when I was a child. Didn’t the old babushka in the house ask us all to replace her family and let her adopt us?” Mycroft allowed himself a grin. That had all been before Sherlock set the poor woman’s rose bushes on fire. 

“Yeah...she did.” His father replied slowly, still cross with him.

“I was surprised she didn’t call the cops on Sherlock for his little stunt,” Mycroft said, and he cursed himself for the soft inflection that filled his voice when he mentioned Sherlock’s name, how mortifying. He was caring for some reason and-- that was no good.

“The son in-law looked like he was thinking about it,” his father said, chuckling softly. “He slapped Sherlock, and then looked furious and hid in his house for the rest of the day.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “That’s what happens when you vandalize a Detective Inspector’s house.” 

“Of course,” his father said breathlessly. “Have talked you to Detective Lestrade since-- well, Sherlock?”

“Yes.” Mycroft felt his cheeks warm. He was exceptionally glad that his father couldn’t see him through the phone. “He likes to catch up with what I’m doing and remember Sherlock. I think it helps with the mourning.”

“It is still considered mourning if they drive you home in their car afterwards? Or dating?”

_Damn Anthea._

“That was once.” He’d spent hours, with Greg talking with him patiently throughout the afternoon, his voice was warm against Mycroft’s ear and neck as they both leaned in a bit too close over the table at the tea house. “It was expected really, after all that time spent comforting him.”

“I know, Anthea told me.” 

“How my assistant chooses to gossip hardly concerns me,” Mycroft said, feeling a full body flush cover his skin. “Greg is good company.”

His father snorted.

“I’ll visit if two things happen simultaneously. You confirm with MI6 that there is some type of family emergency keeping me from Moscow.” Mycroft preferred not to be on the other end of that angry phone call to his superiors. ‘“And--”

“Wait what?”

“You’ll have to pick me up, gave my driver the month off. Seeing as I shouldn’t be in London during that time.” 

“I’ll imagine you don’t have a driver’s license out of necessity, not laziness.”

Mycroft glanced over at the cars passing down the street outside his window. “Yes, I had it taken for amazingly reckless driving.”

Siger sighed. “Terms accepted, I’ll be there at 10:00 to drive you on Friday. See you then.”

“It’ll be nice to see you,” Mycroft said, and strange part of him meant it. 

A raggedy red truck unworthy of the asphalt in his postal code pulled in front of his townhouse the next day, Mycroft walked down his stairs briskly and held his hand out for his father after the man got out the car. 

Siger brushed the hand aside, instead pulling his son into a hug. 

“Hello Mycroft,” His voice seemed tight as his arms clamped down on Mycroft. “I’ve missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Mycroft mumbled, face smashed against his father’s chest, desperate to get out of his arms. “It’s been too long.”

“My, you look dead inside so it couldn’t have been that long,” said a voice in a cadence Mycroft found familiar. He felt a rush of _something_ hearing the nickname. Mycroft pulled away from his father as Gregory Lestrade cracked open his passenger side window. “Hey.”

“Hello Gregory,” Mycroft said back, it came out more like a small squeak rather than two words. He felt heat cover his face. “Hello.” He corrected.

“I invited him,” his father explained. And the old man hadn’t thought to tell him? “The entire NSY seems to be on vacation now, Greg would have been by himself for most of the summer holiday, and that’s no good.”

_Damn Anthea._

“He insisted I pack a bag,” Greg said, shrugging as he climbed out the vehicle. Mycroft didn’t doubt it, members of the Holmes family could be incredibly forceful when need be. He also had no doubt that it hadn’t taken much to convince Greg not the spend the next week or two holed up in the nearest pub with John Watson trying to have something resembling friendship with the broken man. He was probably grateful for the escape.

Now Mycroft had to deal with silver hair, pink lips and terribly kind eyes for the entirety of the trip.

“Wow,” Greg said, eyes flicking up and down Mycroft’s body. He was wearing brown loafers, beige wide leg slacks, and a normal white dress shirt. Mycroft wanted to snort. It was summer, after all, he wasn’t dressed out of the ordinary. 

Greg on the other hand, had a worn a t-shirt that was clinging to his chest and arms showing Mycroft that, _yes_ he did work out a bit. It was an elegant black and did everything in its power to compliment the simple jeans he wore, nothing like the D.I.’s normal attire. 

“Sherlock always called you a ginger. But, your hair actually looks very red today.”

“I usually put brown tint over it,” Mycroft replied, eyes finally flicking from Greg’s surprisingly tone arms to meet his gaze. He cursed himself, he was being undone by a simple piece of casual clothing.

“You’ve kept up with the diet I see.” 

“Yes, I did.” He forgot how to breathe properly for a moment. “I run on the treadmill.”

“I can tell,” Greg said, glancing at Mycroft’s legs. Mycroft forgot how to carry a conversation, leaving a noticeable pause. He looked down at his own legs. Were they slimmer? Hard to tell in such wide pants.

“Let’s get your luggage in the truck, Mycroft.” His father interjected. Mycroft suddenly felt grateful for him. 

He stepped forward and passed most of his bags off to Greg who'd taken to standing by the boot. He tried not to stare too hard while the other man did manual labour. 

“You brought a lot of stuff,” Greg said exasperated but didn’t so any signs of tiredness as he placed the last of the bags into the truck.

“Exhausted already, Gregory? I have some biscuits in of my bags, allow me to--”

“I can grab them,” Greg said, turning back toward the boot. “Which one?”

“Small black bag,” Mycroft said pointing to the little piece of luggage with the combination lock on the side.

“What’s the combination?”

“8-7-4-0”

Greg took the box of lemon biscuits and they all piled into the truck. Mycroft on the passage side next to his father and Greg with the back to himself. 

Mycroft was sure it would be an unpleasant car trip for all parties involved. It puts him on edge when the travel seems to be agreeable. This being because Greg fell asleep 20 minutes into the trip. 

His father looked up in the mirror at Greg, a smile spreading across his face. Mycroft frowned, that was abnormal. 

“So, Gregory,” Siger said suddenly. Mycroft braced at the subject change. 

“What about him?”

“He seems...like a nice boy.”

“Father, he’s forty-six.”

“Nice _man_.”

Mycroft doesn’t dignify him with a response. He’s not having that conversation.

“Mycroft, what’s that man over there on his way to do?” Siger said as they came to a stop at a red light, nodding at the man crossing the street. 

Mycroft paused to think, then turned to his father. “Are you trying to play the deducing game with me?”

“No,” his father said, looking caught. “I just want to know what he’s thinking.”

“That’s not how deducing works.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, I say he thinking about going to the bank,” Siger replied as the light turned green. They moved slowly through the intersection and Mycroft could see the man in question was only a few meters from entering the bank, clearly walking in a straight line toward that direction. 

“Cheater.”

“Observant,” his father corrected.

“Well, I’m not playing this game with you-- it not 1978 anymore.”

Mycroft thought he heard something similar to a laugh behind him, but a quick peek behind him proves Gregory is still asleep. His face is soft looking now, the stress of waking hours washed away by dreams. Mycroft resisted the desire to pull on the piece of biscuit that was limply hanging from the D.I.’s lips, not even ingested before the man fell asleep. 

“You’re as cruel as always,” his father said, Mycroft wasn’t sure how much he meant it. “Missed that.” 

“Mikey!” His mother screamed in that idiotic french lilt like his grandmother used to do. His mother was English why wouldn’t she just say it like she was English? She pulled him into a hug and he was left to awkwardly pat her back. He managed to mumble happy birthday in her ear before pulling away.

“Mikey...” Greg said slowly rolling the word around in his mouth before looking up at Mycroft questioningly. 

“Don’t you say a word.”

“Fine,” Greg said. But, one look in his direction and Mycroft could spot the lie. 

“Who is this?”Mummy said. She gave the inspector a leery stare. “It’s my birthday, shouldn’t I get to choose whether or not I want strangers coming to my home, Siger?”

“I didn’t plan it this way! It just happened!” His father answered loudly raising his arms in a surrendering gesture. Greg turned to shoot Mycroft a look of panic. Mycroft raised an eyebrow, mummy was acting just as volatile as father had said. 

 

“Why are you here?” Mummy asked and Mycroft wondered if his father and Greg would have to make the return trip sooner than expected.

“I was invited,” Greg said with confidence. 

“Mummy this is Gregory’s only option. It was either this or finding him drunk out of his mind in a gutter two weeks from now. Do you want that?” Mycroft wondered how Greg felt after being described as so terribly pitiful. Though he wasn’t wrong was he?

Mycroft was astonished as Mummy side stepped him and wrapped her arms around Greg in a fierce hug. “Sorry, love,” She gave him a little squeeze in her arms. “I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting one of Mycroft’s boyfriends. I was caught completely off guard!”

“Again, it was a rather spontaneous decision for him to accompany us,” Mycroft said, and he rushed to add. “For the record, me and Gregory-- are not together.”

“Oh come on! I can tell this man here is _special_ to you. I don’t mind it you know-- haven’t since I found you with the neighbour’s boy when you were 15. Of course, I never expected you to bring someone home so late in life!” She pulled back from her embrace with Greg to stare at him fondly. “Real silver fox you’ve got!”

“Mummy!” Mycroft cried loudly. Greg seemed to be standing dumbstruck as he struggled to formulate a response. “We’re still standing in the heat. May we please come it?”

“Sure, sure just unload the car first. You’ll help won’t you Gregory?”

“Of course, Ms. Holmes and happy birthday,” Greg said affectionately and Mycroft almost thought he meant it. His mum held a hand to her mouth to keep from turning into a giddy school girl as she retreated back into the house. 

“You and Adam Taylor, eh?” His father asked as they reached for their respective bags. “That explains some things.” 

“Like what?” Mycroft asked but didn’t look Siger in the eye, instead pretended to admire the scenery. “My sexual orientation?”

“No, that’s obvious.”

“Well, then what?”

“Why your mother’s vine trellis below your window was always broken every few days.”

Greg burst out laughing holding his sides, “Oh my god, My!”

Mycroft felt a flash of heat course through his body, causing him to sweat more that he already was.

“Honestly, if you had just told me it would have saved me a lot of time doing unnecessary work wood,” his father said giving him a look. “Which connects to the fact that you two should tell my wife that her relationship radar isn’t as good as she thinks.”

Mycroft sighed, and stepped away from the truck turning to his father “Your right.”

They shut the boot. “No need to look so sad about it. You can be fake boyfriends for the whole trip for all I care.”

Greg let out a huff of laughter, “I don’t mind,”

“No, no we’re not doing that,” Mycroft said sternly. “That’s completely ridiculous--”

Greg’s arm looped around his and dragged him in close. “Why don’t we go inside, _love_?” Greg said, a stupid smile on his face. Mycroft wasn’t sure when his existence became such a terrible joke to the universe. But he can’t seem to will himself to pull away.

Holmes gatherings were always more an ordeal than a comfort. This tradition dating back to before even Mycroft was born. At least in his branch of the family reunions were kept small. Other more extended family members refused to step foot within a 50 kilometer radius of London, that his parents home just happened to be inside of. Since their move after retirement to be closer to the kids that meant no Uncles, Aunts or cousins naturally, not that Mycroft minded.

Since Sherlock’s tragic _death_ it was only Mycroft and his parents. 

It was a small affair of people leftmost impacted by the consulting detective’s demise, minus John Watson of course. Even in death Sherlock still seemed to have the unnatural ability to make everything about himself. His death managed to drive his mother to the brink of depression and destroy Mycroft’s relationship with his father for months, even now they weren’t back to what they used to be, and they never would be. After the first year of pure torture watching his parents struggle with losing a son. Losing a son that _choose to leave them_. They’d all started to slowly move past their anguish of various causes.

“You don’t have to play my romantic partner,” Mycroft whispered. They were sitting together on the sofa, sitting impossibly to close while his mother went to retrieve her favorite dishes from the oven. Something about looking convincing Greg had said to explain it as he shifted closer. Mycroft tried not the focus on their two thighs pressed together. “She won’t kick you out.”

“It’s fun,”Greg said, tone light. “Besides shouldn’t you be able to tell your mum you don’t have a boyfriend, My?” 

Mycroft looked away, thinking. “It shouldn’t be much of a shock really. The worst thing that could have happened to her has already happened.” A comforting hand covered his knee. Mycroft’s eyes snapped to Greg as the D.I. made a face creased with concern, thoughts of _Sherlock_ crowding his mind. “But, you’ve made her happier than I’ve seen in a long time. I’m quite sure my parents didn’t expect much romantically from me or Sherlock. So telling her I broke up with my handsome cop friend a few days after this trip would be the kindest route. Don’t you think?” 

The warm hand left his knee and Greg’s mouth opened in shock. Mycroft realized his mistake. “My apologies. I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable by saying--”

Greg gripped him by the shoulders and kissed him on the forehead. His mother squealed in delight as she walked into the room holding a large roast. His father gazed at them strangely and then shook his head. 

“For your mum’s sake,” Greg whispered in Mycroft’s ear before moving away from his space. 

Mycroft had never gotten up to offer his mother help in the kitchen so fast in his life. 

“How did you two meet?” His mother smiled at the two of them before shoving a spoon full of vegetables in her mouth, prompting them to say something.

“Actually, we met through Sher--,” Greg started before cutting himself off. He looked to Mycroft hurriedly to check if this was the right way to swing the conversation. If he should by reminding Mrs. Holmes of her dead son so soon. Mycroft nodded, his mother had come along way. “Sherlock...Yeah, Sherlock.”

“And what did you say to each other?” Mummy asked, her eyes flashed but she hardly showed the sadness at the mention of her youngest. 

“He called me a shite brother,” Mycroft said impassively. 

“I did?” Greg asked in surprise. A piece of roast fell off his fork.

“You’d already found Sherlock...incapacitated three times by then,” Mycroft said glancing down at his gravy and away from the faces of anyone at the table.

“I remember now,” Greg said slowly. “I was angry.” 

Mycroft hummed in agreement. “I was being arrogant about the whole situation, putting it in the context of the Holmes family reputation and you cursed me out for it. Then sat with me and brought me tea until Sherlock woke up.”

“You were horribly selfish back then.” 

“Then I stalked you when I realized how much Sherlock cared about you and your _work_ ,” Mycroft said allowing his lips to twitch at the thought his desperation to track down the D.I. while Sherlock was in rehabilitation. Maybe just maybe if he could find Lestrade things would be different? “I pretty much kept putting him in your path before you finally took him on.” 

“I knew I was seeing that man an unnatural amount of times on my cases!” Greg screamed in revelation. “I couldn’t find anyone who could solve cases faster… Are you the reason he met John Watson?”

“I wish I could take credit but alas-- Sherlock made a friend,” Mycroft said honestly, and Greg laughed at him, unguarded. Mycroft had to suppress the urge to chuckle along with the man. 

A dusting of light pink settled across Greg’s cheeks. “Well, your brother owed you a lot and I do too. It was a real privilege to be stalked by you,” He said and it came out incredibly mushy. He kissed Mycroft on the cheek and pulled back from it to give him a look so gentle, Mycroft forgot how to think properly for a moment. 

God-- were they still playing a game? 

“Mum, I’m going to go admire your garden for a bit. Food was excellent,” Mycroft said suddenly, words spilling from his mouth in a flood. He wasn’t looking at her, he was still staring deeply into Greg’s eyes trying to figure out just what exactly the inspector thought he was doing. 

“I’ll go too,” Greg whispered loud enough for Mycroft’s parents to hear, making Mycroft want to slap him for his idiocy. Couldn’t the man see he needed to be alone? That he was barely keeping this fragile stage play together? 

“I’ll go three!” His mother chirped happily, getting up to join them. His father got up without a word slowly bring up the rear of the party. 

Suddenly they were all out in the garden. His father broke out the watering hose and Mummy pointed out the different flowers in her garden to Greg while he bent to smell each one. Mycroft hung back from the three of them under a rather large tree. It had been his idea to come out here, but he wanted to minimize the amount of painful sunburn if possible. 

Mycroft was doing breathing exercises while facing the daisies in the opposite direction of the others in an attempt to compose. It was clearer to him now, Gregory was toying with him. He wanted him to be torn and temperamental over this for some reason. Gregory wanted him to look at him and-- want him. Well, he was breathing deeply to compose himself and not peek at Greg’s arse after all. Then, his mother yelled, “Happy couple take a picture!” 

“What?” Mycroft looked over at where she was now positioning Greg in front of her large blooming rose bush. “I’d rather not.”

“Think of it as your present to me,” She said calling over to him. “I don’t want a deposit in my retirement account. I want a picture of my son with his lover!”

“Mummy,” Mycroft said, it sounded more like a whine. He stalked over anyway. “Gregory and I aren’t ones for photos.”

“It’s just one picture, Mikey!”

“Fine,” Mycroft relented, scooting closer to Greg. “Take it.”

“I want you to be kissing in it!”

Mycroft blanched, “Mummy.” Greg made a noise of surprise. 

“Maybe they only like kissing on the lips in private, love,” his father said. Mycroft appreciated the effort.

Greg turned Mycroft toward him leaning in close. “For your mum’s sake,” He repeated in a low hushed voice. 

He gripped the sides of Mycroft’s face and kissed him on the mouth, it was the best kiss Mycroft can recall having. The sound of a camera shutter cuts the air but Mycroft doesn’t care. Greg’s lips are warm but rough, and so perfect. Mycroft pushed close to him and gave a desperate tug at that infuriatingly sexy t-shirt that hugged Greg’s body. He had to restrain a moan. 

“That was adorable.” His mother said when they finally came up for air. “You’ll treasure this photo in a few years!”

“I’m sure they will,” Siger said amused. “Little keepsakes certainly are useful.”

Greg finished the kiss with a soft look on his face that quickly turned tense. Mycroft just knew he had an expression of fear on his own face as Greg pulled him into his arm and turned his head so his mum wouldn’t see. 

Mycroft excused himself from the garden quickly, leaving mummy to fond over who she is sure will be her son in-law. He now sat in his father’s armchair flipping between stations of crap telly deducing the people on screen and wondering how he was going to fire Anthea for this disaster of her construction. 

His father’s the first one to re-enter the house. “Don’t come to gloat,” Mycroft warned. “I know the only one that caused that was me.”

“Don’t think that overzealous cop is not to blame as well.” Siger sat on the sofa across from him.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Their eating cake out there. If you don’t go and claim some plum cake your mum will think you're dying.”

“Tell her I’m tired, some of us still work.”

“Gregory is out there looking a little too apologetic,” his father said. Mycroft shut off the telly.

“As he should be, he shouldn’t have done that. That was-- too much.”

“I don’t believe that for a second,” his father said sternly. “Not with how over the moon you both are for each other.”

Mycroft blinked in surprise. “We’re just friends.”

Siger sighed. “Anthea said you were hopeless.”

“My former assistant doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

Siger ignored the emphasis on the word _former_. “All this build up. What’s keeping you two apart? Sherlock?”

Mycroft felt himself grow defensive, “ _Caring is not an advantage._ ”

“You've always cared a little too much, Mikey.” He didn’t say it with the same dumb thrill as his wife.

Before Mycroft could rebuttal, Siger continued. “Mycroft. I want-- No, I need you to let yourself be happy of once.”

Mycroft wasn't quite sure how to respond.

“We gave Greg Sherlock’s room. So if you want to talk to him about this later you know where to find him.”

“Alright, I will.”

“And please don’t have sex in our home. I’ll have ground you like we’re back in the 70s and 80s, son,” his father said firmly.

Mycroft managed to tell him to shut up with a straight face.

A simple glance at the clock told Mycroft he had only made the decision to talk to Greg about, well, everything in the wee hours of the morning. Mycroft tip-toed to the other side of the hallway to the room that was once his brother’s. They hadn’t been raised in this house so the room had a more recent use as a halfway house to London after each drug overdose. He cracked open the door and took in the sight of his brother’s dresser and bookshelf, still filled to the brim with chemistry textbooks. 

One glance at the bed and Mycroft realized Greg was still awake. 

“Hello,”Greg said, voice drawing Mycroft closer him. He was lying in the moonlight streaming out the window. Greg was wearing yet another t-shirt, and pants, nothing else. Mycroft swallowed hard.

Mycroft was once again torn between what he wanted to say and what he needed to say. “Hello.”

“It’s been an interesting day.”

“Certainly.”

“We can tell your mum we lied to her in the morning. Maybe even find every copy of that photo and delete if you want,” he offered, a regretful grin on his face.

“I’m not as opposed to more days like this as you might think, Gregory.”

Greg stilled. “What are you saying?”

“I-I’m saying we’re at a crossroad and have to do _something_.”

“Well, I want to do this,” Greg said, sitting up and grabbing Mycroft by the waist, pulling him on the bed with him, hands coming to rest on Mycroft’s hips. 

“And I would like to do this,” Mycroft echoed, kissing Greg from his temple down to his mouth.

Greg deepened the kiss, slowing down Mycroft's rushed, frantic pecks at his face. He groaned in Mycroft mouth as they slid their hands over each other’s bodies. Mycroft gasped when Greg found the sensitive spots of his back and pressed, as if on instinct. 

“We’ve waited too damn long for this.”

“And we’ll wait a little longer,” Mycroft said, pushing back off Greg.

Greg decided he wanted to look heartbroken. “Why?”

“We’re not having sex in mummy’s house.”

Of course, Greg just had to suggest they spoon naked together. Mycroft the smaller spoon with Greg curled around him. Mycroft had to turn around and pinch Greg in the nipple when he started rolling his hips against his arse like some type of teenager. In the same breath, Mycroft buried his face in the crook of Greg’s neck to giggle at his antics without setting off his parents. They were both boarding fifty, but damn did he feel young. 

As he finally drifted off the sleep a thought crossed his mind. 

_Better remember to give Anthea a raise._

“Bye, mummy,” Mycroft said two weeks later, hugging her. 

“Me and _Mikey_ had a great time here,” Greg said in a french accent that mirrored his mother’s own totally before hugging her as well.

Mycroft can’t decide exactly how loud to scream at his boyfriend.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sherlock caught the door to the Detective Inspector’s office just as Gavin, Geoffrey, no _Graham_ left for lunch. He quickly found what he needed after over scanning the room.

Badge: Check  
Keys: Check  
ID: Check  
Loose change??...might as well: Check

He stooped down to lockpick the last file cabinet on the right side of the desk, lip poked out in concentration as he worked to bypass the lock mechanism. 

He slid open the drawer after a few minutes and reached in for the last item on his list, Lestrade’s phone.

He hit the power button on the iphone idly to check the time when he nearly dropped the device completely.

The lock-screen-- there was...something horribly wrong with it. There, projected on the screen was a picture of his brother and Lestrade kissing in front of what had to mummy’s roses. It was a passionate kiss from the way Mycroft fisted at Lestrade’s shirt and Lestrade held his brother’s waist with a strange tenderness. They were acting like each other’s lifeline.

_They looked lovely together_

So much had changed such he’d left. Why John was getting married to a _woman_ if that was any indication. But this-- this was too much to be possible. 

Sherlock placed the phone back in the cabinet where he found it, hands slightly shaking as he closed the file and made his way out the room.

Greg walked back into his office approximately an hour later and looked around. He couldn’t find anything he needed for work. It had been like that after Sherlock miraculous returned from the death three weeks ago, apparently in Siberia for most of his two year absence. Mycroft went on a trip to Russia about the same time, but Greg didn’t bother to question it. When the Detective Inspector opened his file cabinet drawers he smiled.

_Mycroft was right, that photo can keep him away from my phone!_  



End file.
